


The Shadows Cast

by Blazinghand



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Adventure, Allegory, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Europe, France (Country), Gen, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 01:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blazinghand/pseuds/Blazinghand
Summary: It's 2001, and Voldemort has finally seized control of Great Britain. With the Order broken and the Wizengamot bent to his will, who will dare oppose him? AU.





	1. Volume One: France

  
  
_Image Credit: Andelevion on Sufficient Velocity  
  
_

**Prologue**

**  
**3 December 2000  
1600 UTC+1  
Somewhere in Norway  
  
The cell was dark, and no light shone through the barred window. Even if he didn’t have perfect memory, even if he wasn’t keeping impeccable records, the prisoner knew it was winter just from the length of the days. Each day now had fewer than six hours of daylight. This far north, days got very short near the solstice. It was a pain. Less daylight meant less time that could be spent reading and writing.  
  
There was a time when he’d write in the darkness. His writing was once impeccable. Gellert’s hands were starting to shake a little with age, though, so now the dark nights left him alone with his thoughts and no outlets. Fifty-five winters he had spent here, fifty-five years without a wand, fifty-five years without walking free. Gellert grimaced. How much had he already lost? Could he even kill, now, after being held for so long? Could he even cast?  
  
Prison did not agree with him.  
  
Still, Albus could have done worse. Gellert had all the books he wanted, all the parchment and ink and quills he could ask for. Every day, he could walk in the courtyard for an hour, under guard of course. He got newspapers and magazines. He could receive mail and visitors, though he could not send anything. He had enough food and every comfort he could ask for. Some of the guards liked to slight him in small ways—forgetting to bring him candles, or books, or book-binding materials. No matter; he would kill them when he got free.  
  
It was now six months since the last time that hunter had visited him. For 50 years, Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody had visited him every month and tested him for magical subterfuge. If you’re clever about it, there are countless ways to duplicate someone magically. Polyjuice, a Metamorphagus swap, even simple illusions combined with mind-fooling magic like _Confundo_ would be enough to defeat casual observation. Many wizards and witches had escaped prison with the help of confederates using this method.  
  
Nurmengard was warded beyond imagining against such trickery. The moment, for example, that Gellert or another prisoner would try an Animagus transformation, alarms would trigger. Casting a spell inside a cell, or with a wand not specifically keyed into the wards would likewise set off alarms. Nurmengard was also warded against Disapparition, Portkeys, even house-elves. Apparition was still possible for entry purposes. Roughly speaking, there was no way for a normal wizard to actually leave Nurmengard in a hurry. One would need to take a walk or ride a broom outside the walls, then use magical travel from there. Were this prison guarded by Dementors, few of these protections would be necessary. The soul-sucking creatures would make quick work of any intruders or escaping prisoners.  
  
Nonetheless, Moody came every month and cast his diagnostic charms. The paranoid Dark Wizard hunter would check Gellert for every form of magical deception known, as though he expected that the Dark Wizard would disappear and replace himself with a polyjuiced doppleganger at any moment. Gellert smiled at the thought. Of all living wizards besides Albus, only Moody had respect for him.  
  
Unbeknownst to Moody, he had already foiled one escape attempt years ago when he came by a week early for his check-in. Gellert had barely managed to hide his materials after his paid man in the prison guard alerted him that Moody had arrived. Years of planning and a once-in-a-lifetime alignment of planets had created the conditions for a unique astroarithmantic focus. This focus allowed Gellert use a normal rod of wood as a wand—with appropriate preparations. The ritual required four weeks of intermittent magical build-up, and he had begun as soon as Moody left the month before. The blasted paranoiac decided to come early the next month, and by the time he left, the ritual was ruined.  
  
Six months, now, and no Moody. Gellert twirled that useless wooden rod in his hands and he knew: _Something has changed._

 

* * *

  
  
This guard’s name was Lund. Gellert detested him. Gellert detested all the guards, of course, but he detested Lund with a particular vehemence he saved for his tormentors. He had already planned Lund’s murder. Finding out about the man was easy enough: Gellert had bribable guards, a deep understanding of human nature, and all the time in the world. Espen Lund, age 45, lived with his husband, Jan, and two adopted children in Trondheim. The eldest, Astrid, would be heading to school this coming year. His hobbies included going to the park with his family, community theater, and bringing Gellert’s meals after they had gone cold.  
  
Gellert’s lips curled back in a facsimile of a smile as Lund unlocked the door. Lund wasn’t carrying a wand, of course—during direct interactions with prisoners you don’t take a risk like that. Still, the blackjack in the man’s belt was threatening enough, and any prisoner in Nurmengard quickly learned there was no way to overpower a guard and escape during recreation time. Even if one could defeat a heavily armed, if wandless, guard, the sentry on the walls _did_ have a wand and wouldn’t think twice before cutting down an escaping prisoner.  
  
Lund dropped the day’s mail into the cell and sneered unattractively. “Looks like your biggest fan bit the dust, Grindie. Guess you got to outlive him after all. My bad, I guess, for not taking care of you myself.”  
  
The door clattered shut and Gellert sat in silence as the guard continued, “Sometimes, I wish you’d try something, just so I could get some action. It’s so _boring_ looking after a model prisoner. There’s nothing like a fight to spice things up. Still, no use brooding over it…”  
  
As the man’s footsteps faded, Gellert eased himself up from his chair and ambled over to the cardboard box. By his count, he’d spent nearly fourteen thousand days here, enough time for an endless amount of mail. Gellert maintained his subscriptions to magazines and newspapers through subterfuge, blackmail, and bribery. He knew that Eide was cheating on her husband with Næss, for example—and that was enough for each of them to make sure he always got his newspapers. Aas ran his letters to the outside world, and it was an unspoken agreement among the more morally flexible guards that his outgoing mail wouldn’t be disrupted, or the convenient bags of gold they got each year would dry up.  
  
The Union Seer (“ _Tomorrow’s News, Today!_ ”) was reporting on the second rise of a minor Dark Lord in Britain, the suspiciously francophone-sounding Voldemort. Normally, Gellert would ignore an article on such an inconsequential upstart, but the headline shocked him out of his usual stoicism.

> **UK Ministry Announces: Dumbledore Dead**  
>    
>  Albus Dumbledore, UK Minister of Magic and Wizengamot Chief Warlock, has been killed at the Ministry of Magic in London, according to the UK Wizarding Wireless. At 0730 local time reports from the Ministry of Magic announced that Dumbledore had “fallen in combat at his command post in the Ministry of Magic.” The Ministry went on to elaborate that he died “fighting to the last breath against blood purism, and for Britain.”  
>    
>  The Death Eater Party immediately announced a majority in the British Wizengamot, and called for a vote to elect Lord Sirius Black, a moderate Death Eater, to the post of Chief Warlock.  
>    
>  There followed an announcement by Lord Black in which he called upon the British people to mourn their Minister and Chief Warlock, who, he said, “died the death of a hero in the capital of the Magical Britain.” His speech called for unity and a normalization of relations between the Light faction and the DEP. “In these serious times, we must come together as a people, no matter where our political loyalties lie. For too many years have we had chaos when there should be order. We must push for a process of peace and reconciliation.”  
>    
>  Reports from Paris say International Confederation of Wizards officials are suspicious of the announcement and certainly are not mourning yet. Still, the news and rumours continue to mount up. The ICW speculates that the timing of Black’s announcement may mean that Dumbledore is not dead but trying to escape or go underground.  
>    
>  In London, Interim Minister of Magic, Augusta Longbottom, would not make a statement to the press about the election situation in England other than to say, “There will be a new election when the Wizengamot deems it appropriate.”  
>    
>  Harry Potter, famous for his initial defeat of the Death Eater movement’s leader, Voldemort, twenty years ago, vowed to continue the battle against the revolutionary group, the Death Eaters, and their political counterparts, the DEP. As putative leader of…

So. Dumbledore was dead. The man had possessed power beyond reckoning and more knowledge than even Gellert. He had not been not alone, either: He had a phoenix, he had a personal army, and more than that, he had the leadership of the British and European governments at his beck and call. No man should have toppled him, and yet he had fallen.  
  
Gellert’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the profane, disgusting newspaper. His greatest friend and greatest enemy, slain. Slain by some upstart Dark Wizard. A nobody.  
  
Pitiful.

 

* * *

  
Aron Næss glanced up from the game of poker again, his eyes wandering out to the courtyard. As prison courtyards go, it was as good as one got. A few chess tables, benches, an exercise area, a garden, and everything you needed for a nice afternoon stroll. Somehow, though, it still seemed incomplete. Such was the nature of prison courtyards, though—no dueling platform, for who could duel without wands?  
  
Still, the scene bothered him, and he didn’t know why until he realized Grindelwald wasn’t at his usual spot in the garden. Every day, like clockwork, Grindelwald would stroll through the courtyard into the garden, spend precisely three quarters of an hour sitting in the glade, then make his way back. Today, though, something was different. The other guards had noticed something off about the man in the past week or so, but that was commonplace compared to what Aron saw now.  
  
Grindelwald was lifting weights, performing push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks. He was jogging and jumping and stretching, pushing the limits of his aging body. His sweat-soaked face was awash with anger. Not the cold, dark anger that lurked always behind his eyes—Aron shuddered to think about what that man’s revenge would be like, were he ever to have it—but a hot, fresh anger: the kind of anger that felled nations, that consumed men, that slaughtered innocents by the _millions_. Aron averted his eyes.  
  
Grindelwald was out for blood.


	2. A Meeting with Rousseau

 

  
**17 August 2001  
1910 UTC+1  
Paris**

Thinking back, when they had first arrived in France, everything was a mess. There were no allies waiting for them, no network standing by to organize a resurgence. There was no safe house to fall back to, until they discovered Flamel’s gift. Whereas they always had allies in Britain, even during the darkest days, France was empty. There was no network of friends with which to reconstitute the Order of the Phoenix, no pliant politicians ready to lend an ear. When Hermione asked Professor Dumbledore, she didn’t like what he had to say.

“None of this was planned,” he’d explained. “During the Second Wizarding War against Voldemort, I had no expectation of losing control Magical Britain while the Order stood. It seemed to me that there were only two routes that fate would allow. I hoped for the first, that we might defeat Voldemort in his entirety. My training for Harry and the support of the Order of the Phoenix would be enough. We would hunt down the Horcruxes and destroy those cursed objects, and with them the anchors that tether him to this world. Failing that, I expect that the second possibility was that we be utterly destroyed. Our magic and our lives would be wiped away, and the world would fall under his rule. The prophecy did not seem to allow for a partial victory for Tom Riddle—and, even should that happen, I expected I would die, that I would nobly sacrifice myself to save young Harry, perhaps.”

“It would not have been the worst way to go,” remarked Professor Dumbledore thoughtfully. “Especially if I could know it would ensure Harry his victory.”

Hermione had known all this. She had always suspected, on some level, that Professor Dumbledore hoped for his own death. He may have been the only wizard that Voldemort feared, but he was also old—frighteningly old, really—and tired. He had been happiest when she, Harry and Ron had their own adventures and he could provide advice when he could. She didn’t know how it happened, but something, sometime in the last wizarding war had broken Albus Dumbledore. He had no living relatives, now, no heirs, and no estate to bequeath on them besides. He would have preferred to live out his days quietly as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, never to fight again. When Harry told her what Albus saw in the Mirror of Erised, she was not surprised. Here was a man done with excitement, ready to rest.

In a better world, he would have had his retirement.

Hermione could not keep the bitterness out of her voice. “That’s not what happened, though.”

Professor Dumbledore’s eyes were tired, devoid of light. “Where there’s life, there’s hope, Miss Granger,” he had said. “I did not prepare for this retreat, it is true; we have no safehouses on the continent, but we are not without allies here, either. Even with control of Magical Britain, Riddle does not have the power base necessary to take over the world. Alastor will find a way to bring the Americans around, and in the meantime, we must build our network here. Magical France is quite different from Magical Britain, and even those who share Riddle’s politics will oppose him just for being British. More pressing, though, is the need to keep Harry’s death a secret. As long as Voldemort believes Harry Potter is alive, we have time...”

 

* * *

 

Hermione blinked, snapping out of her daydream, and raised her eyes back to the grey screen. The screen saver flickered at her gently. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. Normally, this part of her day was straightforward enough. After her afternoon training, she would usually enjoy a couple hours writing, researching, and corresponding with other members of the Order. This evening, though, she was distracted. Every few weeks, she needed to write a press release, and though Hermione Granger was never one to avoid work, writing press releases took a toll on her that nothing else did. “Harry Potter” had to make public appearances once a month, and had to release a statement to the papers at least twice a month, or else people would lose hope. The masquerade of Harry’s continued survival needed to be maintained. This was vital work.  
  
From memory, Hermione could write five feet on the uses of hippogriff feathers in potions, or ten feet on the technique and dangers of inanimate-to-animate transfigurations. She had faced down Lord Voldemort on four separate occasions, and survived each one. Professor McGonagall had wanted to keep her on for a Transfiguration Mastery. Professors Flitwick, Vector, and even Snape had offered her apprenticeships. She could silently cast over fifteen spells, she could conjure a Patronus, and was a perfect Occlumens. She could use the newest Muggle technology with an ease even most Muggles couldn’t match. Albus Dumbledore was her personal mentor. When Alastor Moody learned she kept a spare weapon on her person at all times, he said that she was “sufficiently paranoid,” and he never said that of anyone. She discreetly checked him for polyjuice after the comment, of course. By all measures, Hermione Granger was at the top of her game.  
  
None of it mattered, though. Nothing could bring back Harry Potter.  
  
The steady light from her enchanted Apple G3 was harsh and blue compared to the dancing orange glow coming from hallway through the crack under her door. Professors Moody and Dumbledore were having another argument, the same one they always did. Somehow, it all seemed surreal to her. Here she was, writing on Harry Potter’s behalf, because the Wizarding World needed to believe he was alive. And there was Professor Dumbledore, in hiding because the Wizarding World needed to believe he was dead. As long as Harry Potter continued to exist, Voldemort would be in fear. He would be cautious: he would spend resources looking for the Boy-Who-Lived-Then-Died and delay his plans. Every moment the Death Eaters spent hunting for Harry Potter was a moment they weren’t using those resources to hunt down Muggle-born wizards and witches. Every man-hour spent trying to trace him or track him was a man-hour taken away from arresting fleeing refugees.  
  
With the Order shattered, this delaying action was all they had left. The world was falling apart, Magical Britain was controlled by the greatest Dark Lord in living memory, and all Hermione Granger could do was pretend to be Harry Potter, write press releases, drink Polyjuice, and hold on to hope.  
  
Enough slacking off. Yes, she hated writing these releases. Yes, she hated pretending to be him. Yes, it was dishonest. And yet, it was necessary. Hermione had never shirked away from doing what was needed, no matter how distasteful. She was the only one who knew him well enough, who had proofread enough of his school essays, who spent enough time with him, to really imitate his writing style and his beliefs. The world would need a hero, even a false one, if the Order was to muster forces against the darkness that settled over Britain. In the end, that mattered more than any moral qualms.  
  
By the time the guests arrived, Hermione’s article calling for a pan-species dialogue in Brussels was revised and ready for publication. As the printer hummed to life, she made her way down the carpeted upper hallway towards the Ball Room. From a brightly-colored portrait, an elderly wizard peered out at her with a calculating look.  
  
“You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up, missy,” he chided. “The guests will arrive soon.”  
  
“ _Tempus,_ ” Hermione muttered, twisting her wand in the simple motion required for the spell.  
  
“Just in time” was the reply. Hermione snorted at the old man, and kept a stately pace as she mentally prepared herself for the coming meeting.  
  
Even after living here for months, she was a little in awe of Flamel’s former home, Manor Asnières-Sur-Seine. Compared to the Order’s last headquarters, this place was a palace. 12 Grimmauld Place had been dusty and poorly-maintained. The shadows that seemed to cling darkly to the corners and closets of the Black mansion weren’t, strictly speaking, signs of Dark magic, but the decor had unsettled her nonetheless. Dark things had been done there, the kind of things that hang in the air and water and ground and walls long after the screams of the victims have faded from the ears of their captors.  
  
Manor Asnières, by comparison, was always festive and alive, even as empty as it was now. For many centuries, it had been Nicolas Flamel’s primary residence, and nearly a decade after his death it was not in any way diminished. The wards were strong, though Flamel never invested in anything quite so paranoid as a Fidelius Charm, for who could possibly threaten him? In fact, Albus had been moderately surprised when the wards accepted them. The head of staff, Milly, passed on Flamel’s final benediction—ownership of a few of his properties around France.  
  
What happened to the rest of his wealth, they never learned. Manor Asnières was devoid of magical items or objects of value, though there were several paintings and an ancient library with tomes, histories, newspapers, and diaries spanning back a thousand years. Hermione had only made a small dent in the library, which wasn’t organized in any coherent way she could recognize, except that older books tended to be towards the back. In another time, living in a spacious manor on the outskirts of Paris filled with tomes that had rarely, if ever seen light in the past hundred years would be exhilarating—and it still was, to an extent—but not now. Not with the fate of Europe at risk.  
  
Hermione moved her wand to her left hand and transfigured her sweater and jeans into dress robes while she tied back her hair with her right hand. The off-hand practice came to her more and more naturally now, as did wearing transfigured formal clothing. She could still hear Professor Moody’s advice ringing in her head:  
  
“ _CONSTANT VIGILANCE! You think Death Eaters are going to wait for you to get dressed when they attack? Never wear something so restrictive,_ ” Professor Moody had ranted. “ _If you absolutely must wear dress robes, transfigure your combat armour or loose clothing into something presentable and wear that instead._ ”  
  
Looking into a hallway mirror, she smiled at her work before applying a few finishing touches to her cuffs. Her left-handed transfiguration was getting better every day. She’d never be as good with her left hand as she was with her right, but the improvement was gratifying nonetheless. The seams were still a bit off, and the buttons looked suspiciously cloth-like, but it would do.  
  
“Not bad,” said the mirror, “but you still absolutely must do something about your hair. Even if it’s just Rousseau, you can’t show up with a hairdo like that.”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes and turned away. Standing before the door, she stretched her arms in front of her, savoring the loud cracks as she worked out the kinks in her elbows and wrists. A couple hours spent writing always left her a bit wound up. She had never imagined she’d desperately write press letters every night, update ledgers, and manage logistics for an international organization. Still, if there was anything Hermione could learn to handle, it was organising. Every part of running the Order felt like an extension of the responsibilities she had during the war and the years leading up to it. As limited as her current resources were, they were still considerable and they needed tending, if she ever wanted to bring freedom back to her home country. She scowled at the thought. Tom Marvolo Riddle had taken over Magical Britain with no money or resources other than his own magical talent and a handful of Pure-blood terrorists. Surely Hermione Granger could do better.  
  
The Acting President of the Order of the Phoenix sighed, firmly twisted the doorknob, and swept into the dining room, smiling widely at her guests.

 

* * *

 

The dining table had been hastily transfigured into a large desk after the meal. The plates were mostly gone, relegated to the corners. The center was obscured, plastered with maps, tables of actuarial and census statistics, newspaper clippings, and a long timeline with wizarding photos and note cards tacked to it. Together, these pieces of evidence represented the outcome of six months of research and development by Hermione and her network of contacts and librarians.

  
Hermione’s presentation was drawing to a close. This was the important part—the political part. She had finally found a sympathetic politician willing to listen her, a mere British Muggle-born witch. You don’t get many shots like this. You have to make them count. Her guest tonight was none other than Justine Rousseau. Rousseau held positions in both the muggle National Assembly and the magical Wizarding Court of France. Her reputation as a supporter of Muggle-born rights made her a household name in the Light circles—at least in France. There were completely normal, legitimate reasons for Hermione Granger, up-and-coming Muggle-born political reporter, to seek an audience with her. So far she’d done nothing to let slip the truth about her agenda, just discussed data around issues of Muggle-born rights and British politics. Not all politicians, even the good ones, could consider supporting the Order of the Phoenix openly, after all.  
  
“Starting with the makeup of the Wizengamot in the 70s during The First Wizarding War, we see a gradual decline of Muggle-born representation. This falls in line with our observations about the rate of Muggle-born immigration and the price of life insurance for Pure-bloods, Half-bloods, and Muggle-borns,” Hermione concluded.  
  
“I’m still not seeing it,” replied Rousseau. “There are no reports of official sanctions of violence against Muggle-born wizards and witches in the Magical United Kingdom, though you’ve certainly made a case for things being bad there.”  
  
“It all fits together undeniably,” retorted Hermione, “in spite of the DEP’s PR department. Look, Muggle-born wizards are being slaughtered and oppressed in Britain, but the Daily Prophet simply doesn’t print it. We can work backwards to prove this, though, from the casualty statistics and skyrocketing life insurance premiums for all non-Pure-blood wizards.”  
  
Rousseau watched silently as Hermione continued. “Look, the DEP took power near the start of the year, right? And they gradually gained influence, as we know, in the years leading up to this one. And over this period of time, we see the effective risk ratio—calculated using the premium and the payout of the insurance plans—going up. Inevitably as the crumbling of mountains, ponderously as a Skrewt’s scuttle, the pieces come together. It was only a matter of time following the election. The papers and the politicians might be able to ignore the plight of the oppressed, but put money in the equation anywhere, and the truth comes out.”  
  
“And why should we trust insurance companies over the British press?” asked Rousseau.  
  
Hermione sighed. “You see, the insurance companies, they’re just out to make money. And, you wouldn’t make money betting that Muggle-born wizards will live or do well in Britain, not in the past five years. They have raised premiums because that’s just what they’ve had to do to stay afloat. They wouldn’t do it for no reason. The risk factor is higher. Muggle-born folk are dying in greater numbers in Britain now than ever before.”  
  
“I see,” said Roussau, her voice skeptical.  
  
Hermione knew it was a longshot, but she had to push on nonetheless.  
  
“... which leads us to the political situation here,” said Hermione, “in France.”  
  
Madame Rousseau took her pause for an invitation, and replied. “We are always eager to reach out to our neighbors across the channel. Fostering international co-operation was a core component of my platform, and remains a major priority for both my party and the Left party. So, since you’ve clearly put a lot of effort into this, I’ll be blunt with you, Ms Granger: what is it you want?”  
  
“Fair enough, I’ll be direct.” Hermione took a breath. This is where it could fall apart. Rousseau knew the facts. Could she understand the truth behind them? “As you know, Magical Britain has just emerged from a civil war. Much to the dismay of international observers and activists for Muggle-born rights, the followers of Tom ‘Voldemort’ Riddle and the affiliated DEP have seized control of the legislature. Even now, they enact laws to curtail the rights and privileges of Muggle-born wizards and witches. Though voting and education are still non-discriminatory, land ownership, licensure for apparition, purchase of portkeys, and government positions are now rights only extended to pure-bloods. We believe it is only a matter of time before the discrimination increases in severity.”  
  
“That sounds truly abhorrent,” said Rousseau. “I’ve kept abreast of news from England, but was not aware things had gotten so bad. I’m sorry to hear that the English are afflicted by such an awful English politician. Of course, in France we would never stand for such a thing. Though we have our Pure-bloods and various political factions that do not like Muggle-born community, we’ve never had to deal with that callousness of Blood Purism that you have. It has a particularly English flavor, does it not? We are blessed not to have your problems. I extend my best wishes for England’s leftists in their next election.”  
  
Rousseau narrowed her eyes, and nodded as she spoke, placing careful emphasis on _wishes_ and _election_. “That being said, I fail to see how this predicament involves me, or anyone in my employ. Statistics about Muggle-born financial devices or job opportunities in Britain scarcely affect my constituents. The lifestyles of Muggle-born wizards outside France are not my concern, nor do I plan to make them my concern.”  
  
There it was. Time to knock it out of the park!  
  
“You’re right. It doesn’t involve you—not yet,” conceded Hermione, “but it will. A man like Tom Riddle won’t stop with just one island nation. His dreams will not be contained to Magical Britain, as sure as his ambition would never let him rule only the land of his birth. If you do not feel the urgency of this situation, it is your distance, rather than it severity, that dampens your reaction. There’s no-one like him in France. If you would just look at the facts—”  
  
“Well,” interrupted Rousseau with frown, “we do have our Blood Purist Party here in France as well. And even before this meeting, I was quite well-informed. In fact, Ms Granger—”  
  
Hermione grimaced at the interruption, but pressed on nonetheless. “No, Madame Rousseau. With all due respect, you are not well-informed. One who hasn’t met Riddle cannot truly understand the level of depravity and terrifying charisma the man brings to the table. With his tiny group of initial followers, he was able to rig elections, control the media, assassinate his political enemies, and unleash a wave of terror on Britain not felt since—since Grindelwald!”  
  
“Bah,” said Rousseau dismissively. She waved her hand as though shooing away a bird. “Riddle hardly seems—”  
  
“No!” interrupted Hermione. She felt a heat behind her eyes, driving her forward in an attempt to get through to this politician. “Riddle’s not some milquetoast politician like Fontaine who will roll over and play dead when you beat him in an election. He won’t suffer from embarrassment when he reads an article discussing his night-time activities in a tabloid magazine. He won’t—he won’t issue a public apology if you catch him in a lie! He kills his enemies! He murders the dissidents! If you treat Riddle like you treat the BPP, your nation will crumble.”  
  
Hermione was standing now, and punctuated her final sentence by slamming her clenched fist against the table. The house-elf clearing away the dishes jumped in surprise as the plates and goblets rattled harshly against the dark-stained wood. Scraps of parchment and paper, carefully pinned to her timelines and stacked by date and category, broke free and fluttered through the air on currents of accidental magic.  
  
Rousseau stood as well, and scowled darkly. “Now you listen to me, young woman,” she spat, her voice laced with venom, volume rising with each word. “I have extended you a great courtesy by coming to hear your theories and give you my advice. I did not come to be threatened by someone barely out of college!”  
  
“I’m not the one threatening you,” shouted Hermione, “Riddle is! By politics and terror and murder, he has seized control of Britain, and everything anyone knows about the man says he will not stop there. Stop being offended about his Britishness and open your eyes. He will come for you, and he will come for your country. If you do not take him seriously, there will be nothing left of Magical France but purists and streets running red with the blood of your allies and children! Look at what he’s done already: the latest numbers shows Muggle-borns filing taxes at half the rate that they were ten years ago! Where are half of Britain’s Muggle-borns, Rousseau? They are dead, Rousseau, dead like all you people will be! ”  
  
Rousseau physically drew herself back, and looked disgusted.  
  
“I see that my time and expectations were wasted on you,” she sneered. “I can’t possibly imagine what I was thinking, coming to meet with someone like you.”  
  
With a resounding crack, Rousseau disapparated on the spot.  
  
Once more, Hermione slammed her fist against the table. A goblet rattled off the corner of the table and fell to the floor, spilling wine on the carpet.  
  
“Aargh!”  
  
Only Milly the house-elf remained to hear her inarticulate scream, and she knew better than to talk to Hermione in a mood like this.


End file.
